


Nightmarish

by crispypeach



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-17
Updated: 2012-09-17
Packaged: 2017-11-14 11:26:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/514739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crispypeach/pseuds/crispypeach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gift exchange for alexysmichele on tumblr. Based on the prompt 'I have a weakness for sleepy, cuddly Johnlock. Maybe something before they’re actually a couple. Or in the beginning of their relationship.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmarish

**Author's Note:**

  * For [alexysmichele](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexysmichele/gifts).



Fire. Heat. Pain. 

Sherlock was falling, falling fast. Falling like when he was a child and he leaped out of that tree and broke his leg, falling like Mrs Hudson did when she slipped on those stairs, falling like when he jumped off St. Barts. That wasn't the bad part.

It was what he was falling into. 

The evening had been nice, just John and him alone at home. Sherlock had been fiddling with some sort of hydrochloric acid and nostril hair experiment, John was reading The Herald while sipping a cup of tea. It was quiet. Too quiet.

Just as the last necessary drop of acid was trickling out of the dropper, a huge cracking sound was erupting from underneath Sherlock's feet. 

At first, Sherlock thought it might just be Mrs Hudson's washing machine breaking for the third time that week, so he let it slide and went back to placing the last smallest drop onto the hairs. It was only when a second louder crack occurred a couple of seconds later that Sherlock stopped what he was doing with an audible sigh, and turned to John.

“You hear that, yes?” Sherlock sounded pissed. And so he should be. How dare someone interrupt his experiments?

There was a brief pause before John turned around. That was when Sherlock truly gasped. John's face was warped into a grimace. His eyes were puffy like he had just been crying, his mouth was twisted into a frown, and his breathing was shallow and quick. 

Sherlock began to panic. John had just been sitting there two seconds ago calmly reading the paper, and now he was a sobbing wreck. 

“Sherlock no... don't jump...” he slurred, his voice somewhat muted. He wasn't looking at Sherlock though, it was like he was in a trance. Glaring up at the ceiling, he seemed to mutter things to himself in a dry whisper.

Sherlock was just trying to decipher the words when another crack was heard, so loud it deafened Sherlock. Then the floor fell open.

And here Sherlock was falling. Not onto Mrs Hudson's landing like he was expecting, but through the floors and into what seemed like a dark pit miles below the surface of the Earth. Wind was rushing past him, his limbs were limp and floating about as he tried to decipher where he was going. 

Screaming and shouting on only John's name, Sherlock hit the fire at the bottom with a thud and a bubble of blister on the skin.

And awoke. Sherlock was dripping with sweat. His breaths were deep to the bottom of his lungs. His eyes were wide and scanning the room for anything, someone, John. 

Sherlock touched the sweat beading on his forearm, feeling the prickle of hairs rise into his fingertips. Fear radiated off of him, and it scared him more than ever. Flashes of John's face from the dream radiated between memories of John's face when he jumped from St. Barts. 

John. 

His room was dark, too dark. His eyes weren't adjusting quick enough and it was bothering him. And his room was cold, he could now feel a freezing chill ghost over his half naked torso. He had to get out of his room. He couldn't tell why, but he just had to.

Prising the covers off of his damp skin, he leapt out of bed and fumbled around his room for a light switch. He cursed himself, his brain was not focussing on where everything was in the room. His heart was thudding loudly in his chest, echoing in his ears. His blood boiled and curled around his whole body and his stomach twisted itself into knots. He felt physically sick for the first time in weeks. How could he let himself go so much? It was just a dream.

He rubbed his hands over his face and started to sob into them. Thick streams of tears drifted down his cheeks and into the crevices of his fingers and hands. 

That was when he knew it was the right time to fondle for his silk dressing gown and then try and find John. Sherlock glanced out of the window at the moon beaming down on him like it was the sun. 3am. Not too late, right? 

Pulling himself together and heaving a large sigh to get as much oxygen to his brain as possible, he clutched at the door knob and left the room. 

He shivered at the sudden decrease in temperature out in the hall, he had to remind John to pay the heating bill. And pay most of the other bills. 

Sherlock tip-toed along the landing, the wood like a block of ice under his feet. He had walked this hall a million and one times, but this time felt scarier than others. The painting of Isaac Newton Sherlock had recently purchased stared back at him with an eerie glow. The wild masses of grey curls were once considered 'cute' by one of John's pathetic girlfriends, but now to Sherlock they just looked maniacal and creepy. Shuddering, he hurried along the hall with great speed. 

Once he arrived at John's door, he raised his fist to eagerly pound on the door. But he paused. What if John was sleeping and would be incredibly angry if Sherlock woke him up? There was a 89% chance he would have to be called in for locum work tomorrow, as Sherlock could tell the pregnant doctor would have to go for a check up, and the elderly but somehow still hired nurse would have to take a day off for an unexpected grandchildren-babysitting call. He wouldn't be happy if Sherlock woke him up, no.

But Sherlock no longer cared. He could feel a presence behind him, like some encasing figure was going to sneak up on him and attack him. He had never felt so small before in his life. Without hesitation, he quickly grasped at the door handle and flew into John's room, slamming the door behind him with an accidental, but very loud slam.

The figure lying on the bed across the room was sleeping. He hadn't stirred at the slamming of the door and Sherlock couldn't decide whether this was a relief or not. He couldn't decide whether he was glad he was still asleep, or annoyed that he wasn't awake to comfort him. Either way, Sherlock already felt comforted. John had left the radiator on in his room, and the temperature in there was just on the right side of comfortable. Sherlock looked over at John, and every feeling of tension and fear slowly evaporated out of his body. John's body was rising up and down slowly, and a lightly tanned arm was draped across a pillow, the other hand pulled close to his face. His jaw was slack and his hair rumpled and crushed. He was sort of very beautiful, Sherlock decided.

Taking very small but confident steps over to John, Sherlock wondered why he was even here. His brain had finally caught up with him after the heat and soothing sounds of John's breathing had brought back his conscience. His steps slowed, and eventually stopped. Why was he in here? Bloody hell, he'd been on a drunk high again and had thrilling nightmares and got worried, didn't he? Cursing himself for the second time that night, Sherlock turned and quickly dashed back to the door. 

When his hand was just about to grab at the door, a groan and a rustle from behind him froze him in place. 

"Sher-Sherlock? What are you doing in here?" John's voice was rough and stern, and it made Sherlock slowly turn around. John was now half-awake, one eye was peering at Sherlock through the bright light of the lamp he'd left on, and the other screwed tight. 

"Had a nightmare. Thought I could get some comfort from you but it doesn't matter. Shouldn't have bothered you. " Sherlock muttered, now angry with himself for waking John. 

John smirked. "Wow, must have been a hell of a nightmare to make you regret something. Come here." John opened his duvet, revealing a large Sherlock-sized gap for him to lie in. John was only wearing red y-fronts. Not that it mattered. 

Sherlock paused, sucking in a breath. "Why are you showing me your almost naked body? I don't understand." 

John laughed a croaky laugh. "Because, I want you to come into bed with me. I might help you get to sleep, yes? After all those terrible nightmares." 

Sherlock coughed, feeling foolish. "Hm, of course."

He walked slowly over to the bed, and once there he took a small pause to place his hand on the soft and still warm linen. He then gently pressed his weight onto the bed, sides first and then relaxing into the pillow and mattress available. He instantly felt comfortable. 

It was then that he realised that John's almost naked body was very near his. And that his face was very close to his own too. This strangely didn't make him feel uncomfortable, only made him relax more with the side of John's calm and delicate face. Sherlock wrapped the duvet around him tighter. 

"Night John." Sherlock's voice was slurred, and he could feel his brain slow down again. Damn sleep, he could have lay here all night just watching John breathe and staring into the silver-blue eyes that John possessed. 

The last thing Sherlock heard and felt before he passed out with sleep deprivation was a soft whisper of "Good night" and a barely-there kiss on the forehead. It warmed Sherlock's heart.

If you were to be in the room the next morning, you would see Sherlock's arms were draped across John's torso, the white and tan a beautiful contrast. Sherlock's lips were puffing out soft breaths right next to John's ear. John had one of his hands curled into Sherlock's ridiculously messy hair, and was snoring gently. Both hearts were beating quietly in time, and Sherlock hadn't had another nightmare that night, which was a rare occasion.


End file.
